


Together

by swimmingfox



Series: Potential [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Birthdays, British, Calamity, Chats, Country House, F/M, Fluffy, JojaqHorseman, Joyful, London, Love, M/M, Manchester, Missandedd, Modern AU, Party, Podrya, Potential 14, Potential forever, Sexytimes, Speeches, Surprise Party, THE LAST AND FINAL POTENTIAL, The big Five-O, Togetherness, Very AU, dorset, opera - Freeform, potential, sansan, twins!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: Sandor has a big day and is not very happy about it.The final instalment of Potential, my British Modern AU series! Featuring SanSan, Podrya (yes), other ships and crackships. Mostly cheerful relationship and family-based larks, though the entire series DOES have some drama along the way. Go to the beginning if you're new here, or start at Rebound if you're here for the SanSan!
Relationships: Bronn/Brienne of Tarth, Davos Seaworth/Catelyn Tully Stark, Jaqen H'ghar/Jojen Reed, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark, Meera Reed/Benjen Stark, Missandei/Edd Tollett, Podrick Payne/Arya Stark, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Ygritte
Series: Potential [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/412825
Comments: 119
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedarkestgrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkestgrey/gifts), [jbx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbx/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last Potential is HERE! It's time, really, for some cheering up, I think.
> 
> I am especially gifting this to @thedarkestgrey, because her excitement over Podrya started this whole thing off. And to @jbx for hassling me :) But, because it's the last one, this is also especially for all Potential die-hards. I have so loved writing this series, and it has taught me a lot about writing and about LIFE. Much love xx

_\- A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality. (Yoko Ono)_

**Sandor**

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sandor said, in bed.

It was morning, and he felt horrendous. The lurching sensation of the same thing, happening again, and again, relentlessly. Unable to stop it. He stared up the ceiling, hands folded on top of the duvet.

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Sansa said, next to him.

‘I don’t know how it happened.’ 

‘It just did. It's life.’

‘What’re you going to think of me now?’ He put his hands over his whole face. ‘Fuck.’

Sansa leant over to the side table and opened the drawer where she’d stashed the birthday cards that had arrived in the post over the last few days. ‘I’m going to think that you are a very sexy fifty-year-old, so stop apologising for your age,’ she said. She let the cards fall onto his chest on top of the duvet, before kissing his cheek. ‘Happy birthday, baby.’ 

Sandor looked at the cards, and sighed the sigh of an ancient man, which is what he had now turned into. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said.

***

**Sansa**

‘Remind me why we’re here,’ Sandor said, as they turned off Oxford Street.

‘Because Robin is my cousin and part of our family, and we are extremely supportive,’ said Sansa. ‘Teddy, wait for us, honey.’ 

Their son, who had been marching ahead past the side of John Lewis, now stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry, Mummy. I Was Excited For The Play.’ Teddy had started monthly speech therapy a year ago, and had lowered his volume by about half. 

‘It’s an opera, sweetheart,’ said Sansa. ‘So not just words but music, too. Singing.’

Florence, however, had her own idiosyncrasies. One of them was very long sentences filled with questions. ‘Mummy,’ she said. ‘What is in the play will there be monsters will it be scary will I be frightened is there toilets will it be loud is there ice cream?’

‘I bloody well hope so,’ said Sandor. ‘To the last one.’

‘Thank fuck,’ said Florence.

The other idiosyncrasy, to her parents’ worry and occasional hilarity, was swearing.

***

**Robin**

It was his dream come true. He’d written an opera – it had only taken him six weeks, but then he was a quick worker when the creative spirit took him – and now it was on. In the Wigmore Fucking Hall! The place where all the best string quartets and sopranos and pianists did their thing, the place where BBC Radio 3 recorded concerts, the place where Mozart and Dvorak and Boulanger sparkled, and now where Tully-Arryn would see his premiere.

Admittedly, it was one of three short operas written by postgrad students, was on in the afternoon, there were only four players and three singers plus the kids’ chorus sitting down at the front, and it had very little in the way of set and lighting, but it was still happening.

He snuck a peek out of the stage door, to see Sandor – always unmistakable with his height and his equally visible scowl – sitting down next to Cousin Sansa, Teddy and Florence, before an old lady seated behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said something. Sandor scowled more – bless! – and Robin was fairly sure that he was saying that he couldn’t help being six foot five and it was Wigmore Hall’s fault for not having raked seating, and – ooo! Wait? There was another unmissable figure sauntering in, skinny and all in black, and how absolutely awesome that he was here, especially when he was currently installing his latest –

‘Robin!’ said a kid, hopping excitedly next to him, wearing a feathered headdress. ‘I’m going to sing your song!’

‘Yes, bro,’ said Robin, cheerfully. ‘You’re going to smash it.’

***

**Jojen**

_Fucking lovely_ , he thought, nicking a quick fag outside the Hall as punters came drifting out. It was always nice to support the _ingénue_. Jojen had known from the start that Robin was a genius. Even when he was ten and dancing about in an Elizabethan ruff – maybe especially then. 

Here he was, coming out, with boyband hair and an excellent black and gold suit.

‘Mate,’ said Jojen. ‘That was golden.’

Classical music wasn’t entirely Jojen’s thing, but Robin had a good thing going on. Some of it sounded classical, Regency, whatever, and the rest sounded like the band were at an underwater jazz club, everyone out of their minds on a special brand of weed. Sea-weed. The kids had danced about and sung some stuff, and the student singers had almost never had a tune, which Jojen very much approved of. Robin’s bow had been fantastically flouncy. What a man.

Robin looked flushed with success. ‘Jojen. You came!’

‘’Course I did.’

‘Yeah, the soprano was a bit flat sometimes, but –’ he shrugged. ‘They’re not professionals.’

‘Soon enough,’ said Jojen, putting a hand on his shoulder, before nodding. ‘Hello. Family incoming.’

He watched Robin greet Sansa, Sandor and the little ones. The Stark-Clegane fam were looking pretty solid after the edgy times they had – how long ago was it again? Maybe three years, or a bit under. But they seemed a cosy little clan, the four of them, Florence’s hair a brighter version of Sansa’s, Teddy seeming to have shot up, Sansa and Sandor easy enough with each other. Who knew, though – people put up a front sometimes. He hoped for the best.

‘Sorry about the swearing,’ said Sandor, who was holding Florence. She had joyously shouted _MY UNCLE ROBIN BLOODY DONE THE MUSIC!_ five times before Sansa had hustled her out.

‘That was my favourite bit,’ said Jojen.

‘No worries!’ said Robin, breathlessly, before catching sight of some sexy-looking girls his age. ‘Oh, sorry guys, gotta go network.’ 

‘We’ll never hear the end of it now,’ said Sandor, as they watched him bound over to them to soak up the fawning flirtation he seemed to elicit in the three ladies. ‘The boy’s head can’t get any bigger.’

‘He deserves to enjoy his day,’ said Sansa. ‘As do you.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Jojen. ‘Happy birthday, squire. Nice thing to do on your big one. Very fancy.’ He gave a wry half-wink.

Sandor raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. 

Sansa put one hand on her husband’s arm. ‘It’s not his proper birthday celebration yet.’ 

‘Thank Christ,’ Sandor said, under his breath.

‘Yeah, just a little family gathering in Dorset,’ said Sansa. ‘Robb and Margaery, Mum and Davos. Quiet and very low-key, because someone is not very excited about being –’

‘Don’t say it,’ said Sandor, darkly. ‘I don’t need to hear that word again.’

‘Daddy is Fifty Years Old,’ Teddy informed him. ‘That Is Like Five Times Ten.’ He flashed five fingers, five times, solemnly.

‘Daddy is old like a old wizard!’ said Florence.

‘Daddy wears it very well,’ said Jojen, with another sly wink, just to make Sandor shift uncomfortably, which he duly did. He did look great for the big five-o, hench, a long overcoat, trim beard more grey than black, the hair still much more black than grey. 

‘Anyway,’ said Sansa, leaning down and wiping ice cream off Teddy’s cheek. ‘We’re off tomorrow.’

‘Quiet and low-key,’ said Sandor, transferring a madly wriggling Florence to his other arm.

‘Like I said,’ said Sansa.

‘Lovely,’ said Jojen. ‘Have a good one.’

They said their goodbyes, and as they bundled the kids off, Sansa turned round to Jojen and winked.

He winked back.

***

**Edd**

A world of opportunities. Peace and security. Luxury apartments. Edd scrolled through the photos of another retirement village, an eerie, Stepford Wives-looking place with extremely happy old people playing bowls, swimming, or having afternoon tea. The care staff were all white in these images, which didn’t seem bloody likely.

He sighed. His dad would hate this place, just as he’d hate all the places Edd had looked at. He’d grown up on the farm in the dankest, darkest corner of rural Lancashire, same as Edd had, and was used to getting up at all hours to stick a drench gun in a sheep’s mouth or his hand up its arse, used to whistling at the dog through sheets of rain. But times changed. Families changed. His mam had been dead six months now, and Edd and his sister had to come to some sort of decision on the farm, and on their father, who was well into his seventies and couldn’t do it all alone any more. His sister wanted to sell up, post Dad into a studio flat on one of these polished estates. Edd didn’t quite have the heart, though he didn’t exactly have another solution.

‘ _Daddyyyyyyyyyy!_ ’ said Lucas, barrelling in with the force of a battering ram. ‘ _Rarrghhhhh!_ ’

‘Hello you,’ he said, putting his phone down and hefting him up onto his lap. ‘Right. All packed?’

‘I dunno!’ said Lucas, heartily and unconsciously elbowing him in the ribs. ‘Mummy doing it!’

‘Daddy,’ said Lola, sauntering in more slowly, for she was the more laid-back, and plonking herself on his other knee. ‘I done my suitcase all packed now.’

‘Magic,’ he said, not caring that she was giving his leg some grief, because if his daughter wanted to sit on his lap then he would bear it. 

‘Any room for me?’ said Missy, wheeling in two little red suitcases decorated with rainbows. 

‘I’d love to say yes,’ said Edd. ‘But I think my heart might give out.’

It did seem rather a while since Missy had sat on his lap in the particular way it suddenly, briefly, occurred to him, but seeing as there were two rambunctious four and a half year olds knackering the hell out of both of them for eighty-five percent of their waking lives, perhaps they could be forgiven. 

Missy leant over and kissed him instead. The smell of her shea butter moisturiser and her lemony, woody perfume. ‘That’ll do me for now, then,’ she said, with one of her sweetest smiles. 

‘One for me, Mummy!’ said Lucas. 

‘And me,’ said Lola.

‘How can I resist?’ said Missy.

Yes, he thought, as she leant down to kiss their son’s head, then their daughter’s. Families change.

***

**Arya**

‘’Yello.’ Arya picked up her ringing mobile.

‘Hey,’ said Pod, on the other end of the line. ‘It’s me.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Arya knew immediately, because however calmly and unobtrusively Pod spoke, she’d known him for long enough that she could sense the slightest hint of trouble in his voice.

He took a breath. ‘The school called. They tried you first, but you didn’t answer.’

‘Yeah. Meeting.’ She’d only just got back to her desk, and had a shit-ton of stuff to wind up before they left. She leant back on her chair and gazed around her quirky little House of Black and White office, decorated with hers and Jaqen’s designs. Monochrome, obviously. ‘All done now though, do you want me to call them?’

‘No, I’m already there.’

‘What’s she done?’ She fingered the photo-frame of she, Pod and Aoife, all wrapped up in their finest Canadian winterwear, red-cheeked and holding ski poles. ‘Tell me she hasn’t punched that boy again.’

‘Nope,’ said Pod. ‘She’s, um . . .’ There was definitely tension in his voice. She sat straight in her chair. ‘We’re at the ER.’

***

**Jojen**

‘Hello, darling.’ Jaqen was at the far end of the Hookah Lounge, Brick Lane’s shisha bar, still going strong even with the march of touristy gentrification in Shoreditch.

‘’Ello,’ said Jojen, because Jaqen’s purring smoothness often turned him into a Cockney Sparrow, even if he was from deepest Bristol. He leant down and kissed him lightly.

‘I have ordered you some tea,’ said Jaqen. He was wearing an extremely well-fitting silver shirt that sat across his shoulders and pecs in a deeply fuckable way. ‘How was the opera?’ 

‘He definitely delivered.’

‘A talented young man. And your morning’s work?’

Jojen was currently installing his show over at Auto Italia, a former car sales place and these days hosting some of the best new artists. Up until now, Jojen had shared exhibitions in the city, as well as in Tokyo, Rio, Berlin and Glasgow, but this was his first solo show. Hopefully there’d be a few useful people along to the private view next week – he would happily whore himself to any gallery owner who got his shit.

‘It’s going,’ he said. ‘Slowly. How about your thing – what were you doing again?’ He plucked a hair from Jaqen’s shoulder.

Jaqen had been a little mysterious – or rather, a little more mysterious – of late, brushing over whatever appointments he’d been having. Jojen had begun to wonder if one of his trysts in their extremely open relationship had turned into something more. To be fair, he’d shagged around a bit too, but the rule was that they were always honest with each other, and sometimes they brought the other dude back – though no one had ever quite reached the dizzy, dizzying, dazzling heights of Jaime Lannister.

‘Yes.’ Jaqen sipped his Turkish apple tea. ‘I do need to talk with you about that.’ He gave one of his knee-melting smiles, but Jojen caught the gossamer sense of melancholy in it. He took Jojen’s hand, turned it over and held it as if it were an exquisite Japanese ceramic bowl. 

Yes. He definitely looked melancholy.

 _Fuck_ , thought Jojen, feeling a part of himself float away up into the strawberry-scented hookah pipe smoke. Here it was, then.

***

**Sansa**

‘Daddy.’

‘Daddy’s asleep.’

‘Daddy.’

‘Daddy’s asleep, Flo. Listen to his bear-snores.’

‘He sound like what the Gruffalo sound like when he sleeping.’

‘That is a highly accurate observation.’

‘Mummy.’

‘Yes, sweetheart.’

‘Are we there.’

‘Not quite.’

‘Are we almost almost there because it been a really long time in the car and my legs hurt.’

‘Almost. But not quite. How’s your book going?’ She glanced in the mirror at Ted, who was deeply absorbed by his own book. ‘Has the mouse found the dragon yet?’

‘The mouse he been getting hungry and he found a worm but he dunt want to eat it and he went down a hole and he get lost and I need a wee wee, Mummy.’

Sansa sighed. You needed the patience of several saints when driving, and it was a long old way from Manchester to Dorset. She glanced over at her husband, the passenger seat pushed so far back that Florence’s car seat always had to go in the middle. His head was tipped back, and he was snoring for Scotland, but then he had done the first leg of driving after very little sleep. Florence had another of her nightmares last night, and asked a lot of very detailed questions about monsters under the bed for a couple of hours, before she finally dozed off in their bed, merrily kicking them both in her sleep.

She glanced at the sat nav. Half an hour to go. She really hoped she hadn’t done the wrong thing. 

‘Mummy, I need a wee wee.’

‘I know, cutie pie. We’ll stop. But you have to promise to be very quiet so we can let Daddy sleep, OK?’ _He’ll need it_ , she thought.

‘Because he grumbly snorey Gruffalo and he need his sleep?’

‘Exactly.’

***

**Sandor**

‘Baby.’

For a moment, he thought he was thirty-seven or thirty-nine or so, and his girlfriend – his only ever real girlfriend – was leaning over him in bed, her amber hair falling onto his chest, her voice soft as cotton, and all he had to do was bring her properly over him, pull her thighs across his hips, and –

‘Daddy We Are Here Now. Look At The Big House,’ said Teddy.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and stretched a stretch that made his bastard back click alarmingly. No car was ever big enough for him. He looked over at his wife, who was giving him a slightly knackered smile. 

‘We’re here,’ she said, and her voice _was_ soft as cotton, despite her having driven for the last four hours. There were often little lines at the corners of her eyes these days, and somehow he loved those even more than the china-smoothness that had been there before, because they spoke of life, and their life together. 

‘Are we at a castle has it got a princess is there a prince is there a monster,’ said Florence.

‘Pretty much all of those, pipsqueak,’ he said. The Tyrell house was fucking swanky, a proper pile; they’d been here once before, for Robb and Margaery’s wedding. He didn’t really understand why a small family dinner had to be all the way down here when they could have just hired two tables at a nice pub in Manchester, but Sansa had insisted.

‘Do we park up somewhere else?’ he said. He looked for Davos’ car, or Robb and Margaery’s posh jeep. ‘There aren’t any other cars here.’

‘No, this’ll be fine,’ said Sansa, typing something into her phone. ‘Maybe we’re first.’

‘The valet’ll be up in a minute, right?’ he said, and gave her a wry smile.

‘I expect so,’ she said, rather airily, and grinned back.

They walked up the sweep of gravel drive with their weekend bags, the two kids marching (Teddy) and hopping (Florence) in front. Christ, his neck ached. It was as if fifty had announced itself with several new cricks and niggles.

The doorbell made a deep clanging noise that suggested a mechanisation several hundred years old was sounding through the house. He looked up at the windows. ‘You’re not bringing me here to kill me, are you?’ It was all feeling a bit murder mystery.

Sansa put her arm into his. ‘Not very likely.’

The door opened and a besuited man stood there. Christ. Olenna Tyrell had a fucking butler. They’d walked into some sort of hoity-toity Downton Abbey nightmare. 

‘You sure you’re not doing me in?’ he said, under his breath, as they followed the butler in through the vaulted hallway.

Sansa gave the gentlest of laughs. ‘Come on. Let’s find out where everybody is.’

He hoped no one else was here yet, he thought, eyeing the portraits of various ancestral Tyrells on the walls. Then he could have a lie-down in one of their fifty bedrooms, and –

‘ _SURPRIIIIIISE!_ ’

His heart slammed into his chest. The living room – ballroom, whatever – was filled with faces. Fifty faces. Starks, partners and friends of Starks, army pals, co-workers, drinking buddies, all standing with drinks in their hands, and kids there too, all having just shouted in a ragged unison, and now looking at him expectantly. He stood, struck dumb.

‘Holy fuck!’ said Florence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party chats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay! I got ahead of myself whacking the first one up without having enough of the next ones ready. Hope this works – it comes directly after everyone shouted 'SURPRISE' at a nonplussed Sandor, down at Olenna's swanky crib, and is literally just party conversations...

_**"Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success" - Henry Ford** _ **/ ******

***

****

**Sandor**

_Fucking hell_ , he thought, looking at the glass of champagne put in his hand by Robb, and trying to take in all these people, who’d finally turned to each other again after their unison shout. He really hadn’t expected this. 

‘Hey,’ he said to Teddy, who’d more openly expressed what his father felt by bursting into overwhelmed tears. ‘It’s alright, kiddo.’ He bent down to him. ‘Look, there’s Oscar over there. Want to go and say hi?’

Teddy sniffed and nodded, before plodding over to Oscar, who was in a shirt and tie, his hair combed through with gel.

‘I guess the kids didn’t know either, then,’ he said to Sansa, straightening again, as music began playing from speakers and the sound of people’s conversations increased around them.

‘God, no,’ said Sansa. ‘Florence would have been out with it in a second. Plus swearing.’ She put her arm round his waist. ‘Did I do the right thing?’ 

She looked apprehensive, as if she could see plain as day that a good portion of him would be happy in a very quiet spot on a river, fishing, on his own. Fishing – was that what you did when you hit fifty?

But he looked around, and saw all these faces under one extremely fucking posh roof – during their wedding, he’d thought that he’d never have such a motley crew in one place again, and yet here they were again, with the addition of fresher faces and several kids. Bronn and Brienne were chatting to Sal, who was throwing his head back in a hearty laugh; Bran was with Cat and Davos; there were some of Sansa’s colleagues, Jon and Dany and Doreah; Ygritte and Tyrion; a handful of old army pals including Osha and Edd, and countless others, including all the wider Stark family. 

‘It’s grand.’ He drew Sansa to him, properly, wanting to savour the moment before people approached. ‘You’re too good to me.’

‘I’m exactly the right amount of good to you,’ she said, and pulled back, giving him a poised look. ‘Aren’t I, mister.’

He knew exactly what the look meant; it was a reminder of their couples-counselling days, of all the self-sabotaging thoughts that used to fleet into his brain more often than not. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, in a low, quiet voice.

‘No ma’am yet,’ she said. ‘I’m not fifty, unlike you.’ She put her lips together in a _whoops, naughty me_ smile.

He felt his insides softening. ‘That’s below the belt.’

‘I know exactly what is under the belt, and it’s not my rubbish joke.’ She raised an eyebrow, the sort that had a magnetic pull. ‘Margaery has sorted a massive sleepover in one room for all the kids, so you and me are all alone without interruptions tonight.’ She put her mouth very close to his ear. ‘I am currently wearing new underwear that cost a lot of money for such little material and, to be honest, was incredibly uncomfortable to drive in.’

‘Oh, aye?’ he said, wanting nothing more than for it to be the party’s closing time right now. ‘I think I’ll be needing to have a look at that.’

‘Yes, you will,’ she said. Her breath on his cheek. ‘But first,’ she said. ‘We mingle.’

***

**Sansa**

‘Here she is,’ said Margaery, approaching her with her usual dazzling smile and holding Bella, her second daughter and currently dressed as a princess, by the hand. ‘The best wifey ever.’

‘Second best,’ said Robb, giving his sister a kiss on the cheek. ‘No offence, sis.’

‘None taken,’ said Sansa. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t have done it without your help.’ 

‘Our pleasure,’ said Margaery. 

It had been fairly nerve-wracking, putting this whole thing together. Her brother and sister-in-law had liaised with Olenna at this end, making sure there were rooms and bedding for those staying, sorting out a gazebo for outside. She’d got hold of everyone that she could think of, and had been biting her nails in the hope that people wouldn’t change their minds at the last minute. But here they were, she thought, ticking them off in her head. Meera and Uncle Benjen, Aunt Lysa and Thoros, Rickon and Lyanna, Theon and Yara, Missy – waving at her from across the room – and a few more still to come. She checked her phone. 

‘Are you Anna from Frozen?’ said Bella, in a piping voice. ‘Because my mummy is Elsa but only when Elsa is not nasty.’

‘Yes,’ said Sansa. ‘Yes, I am. And yes, she is.’

‘I’m Kristoff, obviously,’ said Robb. ‘The big dumb bloke.’

‘Right, you need another champagne to take the edge off the post-driving fatigue,’ said Margaery. ‘Come.’ 

So Sansa took little Bella’s hand and the three princesses headed towards the booze trolley.  
As they moved, they heard an unmistakeable Canadian accent at the main entrance to the room.

‘ _Thurprithe_ , Uncle Thandor! Happy birthday!’

Her heart leapt, and she excused herself to dash over, grabbing Sandor by the arm on her way. And there they were, her long-distance sister, husband and child – she stopped short. ‘Oh my _God_.’

One side of Aoife’s face was horrendously blue and puffed, her eye bandaged, and her wide smile displayed a distinct lack of two teeth.

*** 

**Arya**

Sandor looked at his niece’s face with undisguised horror, and Arya knew that it was worth not having warned anyone about Aoife’s mishap, just for that look.

‘Jesus wept,’ he said. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ He looked ready to get on the next plane to Toronto and beat up, or possibly violently slay, whatever Canadian fuck did this to his niece.

‘I got an ithe hockey puck in the fathe,’ said Aoife, cheerfully, her lisp more pronounced than ever. ‘I bled all over the ithe, it wath _tho_ cool!’

‘Christ,’ he said, glancing at Arya, who was still in Sansa’s tight sisterly grasp. ‘Just as well they’re baby teeth, I guess.’

Arya snorted. ‘She lost her last baby teeth a year ago. Nope, she’s going to have fake ones put in.’

‘ _Yetthhhh!_ ’ Aoife punched the air in excitement.

‘Probably she’ll be getting a full set if she keeps the hockey up,’ said Pod. ‘But for now, she’s getting a mouth guard.’

‘Good lass.’ Sandor smiled, and looked at Arya properly. ‘Come here, then.’

Sansa released her, and she and Sandor hugged. Arya thought back to their first encounters, she an incredibly suspicious, obstinate, unyielding and unhappy teenager, and he – pretty much the same, but taller and growlier. 

‘It’s grand to see you,’ he said. 

‘Yep,’ she said. ‘You too. So tell me, how is it, being geriatric?’ She put a hand on his arm, looked concerned. ‘I could make sure I order a few teeth for you when we get Aoife sorted, if you like?’

He sighed. ‘Yeah, yeah. Couldn’t resist, could you, you little shit?’

‘Nope,’ she said, grinning. Some history had to be kept just as it was.

***

**Robin**

_One day I would like to own a place like this_ , thought Robin, although really he wanted to emulate Picasso and F. Scott Fitzgerald and live in a whitewashed house in Antibes, or in Paris like Ravel, Satie and Stravinsky. Really, he should have been born between the wars. Still! Here he was for now, helping Thoros unload his PA from the van outside the Tyrell pile, because he never said no to a gig. 

‘There he is,’ said a cheerfully laconic voice, and a hand clapped him on the shoulder. ‘The international man of mystery. Casanova himself.’

‘Oh, hi Bronn!’ said Robin, putting down the case of cables. ‘Long time, no see.’

‘How can I forget that mandolin,’ Bronn said. He circled a finger near his right ear. ‘Seriously. It’s still playing in here.’ A hint of a wink. 

‘Hey up. Watch your backs, ladies.’ Ygritte, the staunch recipient at one of Robin’s slightly embarrassing come-on attempts during Arya’s cool wedding, was sauntering over, a bottle of beer in her hand, with her boyfriend Tyrion. She turned to him. ‘You know this little lad tried his luck with me a few years ago with the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard? And I’m from Hull.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Tyrion, looking up at him with some amusement. ‘And when was this exactly, my love?’

‘Arya’s wedding. About an hour before you and me copped off,’ she said.

‘In that case, perhaps I should thank you,’ said Tyrion, with charming grace. ‘She rebounded straight into me.’ He bowed. 

‘So how’s tricks?’ said Bronn, his arm still around Robin’s shoulder. ‘Still causing cat-fights amongst all your female admirers?’

‘Nah,’ said Robin. ‘I’m calming down now. My wild playboy years are over.’ Once his sexual flame had ignited and girls started actually fancying him, he’d gone a bit over the top in his bohemian ardour. It was exhausting. 

Bronn snorted. ‘Bollocks. You’ve only just begun. Are you telling me you’ve got yourself a proper girlfriend?’

‘Nope,’ said Robin. ‘I’m focusing on my art.’ 

Ygritte snorted. ‘Nobody ever had an orgasm from art.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Robin. ‘I came pretty close at one point during the Royal Opera House’s last performance of the Ring Cycle.’

‘Ha,’ said Tyrion. ‘Touché.’

‘I can’t tell if you’re having me on or not,’ said Ygritte.

‘Not,’ said Robin, airily. ‘Or maybe just a little.’

Ygritte slapped him with excessive force on the back. ‘Top drawer. You’re a one, aren’t you? Any road, don’t give up the nookie just yet. Plenty of time before retiring the old man.’ She looked very directly at his crotch, before winking.

‘Roger that,’ said Robin, with good cheer, before picking up his case again. 

‘And what musical extravagances may we expect this evening?’ asked Tyrion.

‘Please not the mandolin,’ said Bronn.

Robin tapped his nose. ‘Strictly under wraps,’ he said. ‘You’ll see!’

***

**Sandor**

‘Ah. There he is,’ said Olenna, holding a fluffy white cat in her arms and looking for all the world like a Bond villain. ‘The man of the hour.’

‘Olenna,’ Sandor said. ‘Nice to see you again. It’s very kind of you to have done this.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly glad to have a house filled with noise and high spirits. Rather better than me rattling around in it on my own.’

 _Just you and your butler and your housekeeper and your cook_ , he thought. 

‘I do keep wondering when to give it all up to Margaery and Robb and take a little cottage with a kitchen garden and a pond,’ she said. ‘The cleaning fees are, as you can imagine, quite astronomical.’

Sandor worked very hard to hold his tongue.

‘And anyway,’ Olenna carried on, breezily unaware of her privilege.’ ‘It’s my pleasure to do something for my protégée.’ She glanced over at Sansa, who was laughing with Dany and Jon in a corner, Florence in her arms. ‘I’m rather pleased with her progress in the great Northern uprising.’

‘Aye. She’s doing a grand job, as far as I can tell.’ 

‘Good.’

Jon ran the North-West now, was quids-in with Manchester’s mayor, and Sansa was very much his second-in-command, heading up business and enterprise with a community focus. She was a bloody powerhouse, and yet she’d still found time to organise a massive party for him.

Olenna gave Sandor a penetrating, hawkish look, the sort that might boil bones. ‘Women like that don’t fall into your lap. Treasure her.’

‘Aye. I do,’ he said. ‘I will.’

***

**Sansa**

‘How was the trip?’ said Arya.

Sansa and Arya were sitting outside by the apple orchard with their mum and Davos. There was a distinct autumn chill to the September air, and very tasteful blankets were laid around for people to use. Paper lanterns – balloons were too trashy for Margaery's party aesthetic – had been strung amongst the trees. 

‘Lovely. Just lovely,’ said Cat, glancing at Davos. They’d gone travelling across Europe for the last month.

‘Aye,’ he said, a little patch of red above his beard. ‘It was great. I feel like I’ve seen a lot more of the world now.’

‘You went pretty quiet in the last couple of weeks,’ said Sansa.

‘Did we?’ said Cat, rather vaguely. ‘Oh, I think it was just nice to go off-grid a little.’

‘Where did you end up after Greece again?’

‘Italy. Florence and Rome. Then Sicily.’

‘Very swanky,’ said Arya. ‘Hope you necked a lot of wine.’

‘We certainly did,’ said Cat.

‘Speaking of which,’ said Davos, with excessive cheeriness, as he took Cat’s glass and held up his own. ‘I’ll go top these up.’

‘Did you _really_ have a good time?’ said Sansa.

Cat looked a little defensive. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Seriously, though,’ said Arya.

‘Seriously.’

Arya narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s hiding something.’

Cat let out a blustery, very unnatural sort of laugh. ‘No, I’m not. We had a wonderful time. Really. It was so good travelling without working throughout. Actually getting to know cities.’ 

‘Definitely hiding something,’ said Sansa.

***

**Arya**

‘Here he is,’ said Arya, as Jojen came wandering out into the garden. ‘Was beginning to think you’d blown us out.’

‘Hello, mate,’ said Jojen, easily, and the two of them hugged, as if they’d only seen each other yesterday and not six months ago. 

‘What the fuck is that on your face?’ She eyed his moustache.

Her best friend gave an unoffended smile. ‘Been working on this bad boy for a while.’

‘You look like a seventies porn star.’

‘Exactly what I was going for.’ He winked, but only half-heartedly. He didn’t seem quite present, somehow.

She glanced behind him. ‘J-Bomb not with you?’ She had been rather looking forward to catching up with the boss, whom she saw on a screen these days, his face usually freezing because he was surprisingly bad at technology.

‘Oh. No,’ Jojen said. ‘Some stuff came up.’ For a moment, she thought she caught a pained expression fleet across his face, before he put his arms round her again. ‘Come ‘ere,’ he said, and hummed as if sinking into a hot bath. ‘Haven’t had enough of you yet.’

‘How can you feel even skinnier than usual?’ 

‘I eat like a horse. Been working out, actually.’

Arya sniggered. 

‘Not joking.’

He continued holding her, rather tightly, until she patted him on the back. ‘Need to breathe now. Methinks a boy needs a drink.’

He took a big sigh. ‘A girl would be right.’

***

**Edd**

‘It’s been ages, pal,’ said Sandor, hugging him. Long gone were the days when they were still both army-stiff and just shaking hands could be seen as a bit much. ‘Thanks for coming down.’

‘It has,’ said Edd, patting him on the back. ‘And no problem. Great to see you. Happy birthday, mate.’

‘Ugh,’ said Sandor, with a sound akin to vomiting. ‘I’d prefer to just forget that bit.’ He turned his head at the same time as Edd, towards the sound of children, including some of their own, their voices increasingly and indignantly raised. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Here we go. Only so long all this lot could be together before the carnage started.’

‘My daddy has a robot superhero leg!’ said Lucas.

Teddy stood firm, his fists clenched. ‘My Daddy Is The Biggest And Strongest.’

Ivan Arynn-Myr seemed to be conducting the air, a gesture that distinctly reminded Edd of his musician big brother. ‘My dad sings me old ballad songs and takes me camping in the forest and he has taught me the Latin names of every single flower, moss and tree.’

‘My Daddy Could _Lift _A Tree If He Wanted And He Makes Pancakes,’ said Teddy, not to be beaten.__

____

Lola crossed her arms. ‘My daddy makes Lego castles and walls you can’t break.’ 

____

Edd allowed himself to enjoy the quiet, tiny pride blossoming in his heart.

____

‘My dad has a bow and arrows,’ said Ivan. ‘Not pretend ones but real ones made of wood and he can hit a bullseye from twenty metres away.’

____

Teddy looked quite furious at the suggestion of competition. ‘My Daddy Has The Biggest –’

____

‘Alright, mate,’ said Sandor, who’d strode over to them and now hefted Teddy up and over his shoulder, like a deer carcass. ‘That’s enough of that. Go find your sister and check she’s not offending anyone.’ He set him down by the back doors to the striped lawns, patted his bum and sent him on his way, before rejoining Edd. ‘So you’re a superhero, then,’ he said. ‘Can’t contend with that.’

____

‘My _leg_ is a superhero,’ Edd corrected. ‘Not sure about the rest of me.’

____

‘Well, they seem pretty convinced.’ Sandor picked up his cider. ‘How’s it been going?’

____

Edd nodded, and the nod meant about twenty different things. ‘Yeah, it’s been . . . a bit of everything really.’ 

____

‘Yep. Four is a bit of an age.’

____

‘Not as much as two is.’

____

It had taken the twins a while to settle, that was for sure – Missy did gently remind him that toddlers were challenging, but that didn’t exactly diminish the intensity of their night terrors (Lucas) and wetting the bed (Lola), or their screaming meltdowns, often in the middle of a pelican crossing or supermarket. It didn’t help matters that people sometimes gave him a look like he’d kidnapped one of them, what with him being as pale as a stripped willow, and Lucas and Lola’s skin being a deeper brown than Missy’s. But he’d learnt to ignore that and just gently coax either kid off the road or to the sweets aisle.

____

He’d worried a lot in the early days about what he could offer these two kids, as a white man. Missy, however, pointed out that the adoption agency saw no problem, and how her own white adoptive parents encouraged her to explore her heritage without making her feel different from them, and would be ready with advice. He’d certainly devoured a lot of books to help him along.

____

‘And how’s Missy doing with them?’ Sandor asked.

____

‘She’s amazing,’ he said. Which wasn’t to discount her own quiet meltdowns occasionally. But truly, having these two mad little things in their lives had transformed her, taken the edge off her anxieties, made her shine anew. ‘A total natural.’

____

‘Good to hear. Hey, I was sorry to hear about your ma.’

____

‘Thanks, mate.’

____

‘She went quickly, right?’

____

‘Yep. Heart attack.’ He tried not to think again of his dad’s phone call, his voice distant and rather baffled. One minute she’d been standing in the kitchen, the next she was lying on the flagstone floor, gone.

____

‘Your dad on the farm on his own, then?’

____

‘At the moment.’ His mum, seven years younger than his dad, had been hardy until the end, out at all hours, wearing only her cardi.

____

‘You wouldn’t ever think of moving up there, would you?’

____

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Their life was in London, him at the civil service, Missy translating from home. He felt part of him yearn for the grey hills and big skies of his childhood, but what Missy wanted suited him fine. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Happy birthday, mate.’ He held his beer out.

____

Sandor clinked his glass.

____

***

____

**Arya**

____

‘ _Sooo_ nice to be back together,’ sighed Sansa, resting her head on Arya’s shoulder. ‘Why can’t Pod design a high-speed underground tunnel between Toronto and Manchester?’

____

‘Because of it being pretty much an engineering impossibility,’ said Arya.

____

She, Sansa and Bran were sitting on swankily upholstered furniture, watching everyone chat and drink. Florence was currently doing front rolls at the feet of their mum and Davos, who duly applauded, which made Florence applaud herself.

____

‘They look happy, don’t they?’ said Sansa, with only the smallest tinge of melancholy that they all felt at one absence here. 

____

Dad. Grief might have lessened, but it didn’t go away. It was always lurking under the surface, ready to rise up at odd moments. Sometimes it would hit her, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a meeting: the huge, gaping absence of him. Bran talked often about energies and how Dad was still around in his own way, but it was hardly the same.

____

‘Yep,’ Arya said, blinking herself back into the present and watching Davos put his hand lightly on their mum’s back. She didn’t begrudge Cat’s happiness – she deserved it, after all the shit. And he was widowed, too. They had a respectful intimacy that spoke of what they’d both been through, and the gratitude at having found someone else.

____

‘Oh my God,’ Sansa said, sitting up, still staring at them. ‘ _Hmm_.’

____

‘What?’ Arya said.

____

‘ _Hmm_.’ Sansa looked at their brother.

____

‘Oh,’ said Bran, who always seemed to know everything, following her gaze. ‘Yes.’

____

‘ _What_?’ said Arya. ‘Say actual words.’

____

‘Not yet,’ said Sansa. ‘I am going to do some detective work.’ 

____

She got up and walked with decisiveness towards Davos who, seeing her, looked suddenly like a beardy Geordie rabbit in headlights. She took him by the arm and whisked him towards the garden.

____

' _Hmm_ ,' said Arya.

____

'Exactly,' said Bran.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slowcoach updates! Finding it a bit hard, and am probably trying to drag it out so that Potential never finishes, hahaha.

_**"Love is the bridge that leads from the I sense to the We" - Carson McCullers** _

***

**Sansa**

‘Darling.’

The party was going so well. She hadn’t made a mistake in organising it. Sandor was chatting to Brienne and Oberyn, his two old colleagues from Arya’s school, looking relaxed, no scratchy scowls in sight. 

And now here was Olenna, in her 1920s cape, touching her arm.

‘I’m so grateful to you for this,’ Sansa said. ‘It was so amazingly kind of you.’ She was still rather in awe of Olenna, who’d put her on the career path she was loving so much.

‘ _Wshht_ ,’ said Olenna, dismissively. ‘I’ve not come over to fish for compliments. Only to tell you that three more guests have arrived. They’ve disconcertingly strong Scottish accents. Glaswegian, I would hazard.’

‘Oh my God,’ she said, her heart inflating. ‘They made it. Thank you.’ She dared give Olenna a kiss on the cheek, before going to her husband.

‘Hey,’ she said, grabbing his arm and smiling apologies at Oberyn and Brienne. ‘Come meet the arrivals.’

Sandor looked faintly nonplussed as she swept him towards entrance to the main room, glancing around as if doing a headcount. ‘Who’s left?’ he said. ‘Pretty much anyone I’ve ever known is here.’

‘You’ll see,’ she said.

‘You know I’m a wee bit pissed already,’ he said, looking at the empty champers glass in his hand, and shaking his head like a dog just-emerged from a lake. ‘It’s like drinking air, this stuff.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘You deserve it.’ 

She knew the moment he’d spied the newest party guests, two teenagers, aged sixteen and nineteen, tall and pale, both towering over their mum. A slight catch in his throat. ‘Christ,’ he said, and not in his usual cursive way, but with a touch of wonder.

A year ago, Sandor had talked about trying to track down any of Gregor’s kids, and with Sansa helping, he’d had some luck. Jack and Triona were the son and daughter of a tempestuously on-off relationship between Gregor and Elena, a fierce Italian-Scot, who’d kicked Gregor out while still pregnant with Triona. It had been a rocky road for them all – she’d ended up having to take out an injunction on him. There was initial suspicion when Sandor got in touch, but he’d been up to Glasgow three times now, had sent them birthday and Christmas presents, and seemed to have been slowly welcomed in.

‘I can’t believe you guys came,’ he said.

‘It’s as far south as we’ve ever been,’ said Jack, who looked a great deal like Gregor, though much skinnier. ‘Alright, Uncle Sandor. Happy birthday, pal.’

‘Happy birthday,’ said Triona, the quieter of the two. 

Sansa kissed Elena on both cheeks and stepped back to allow them all to greet each other properly. Sandor was different with older kids, she saw, treated them as the adults they were, and she saw how he’d be when Teddy and Florence were older. Patient, accommodating. He knew what pain was, and he knew how to make space for it in others.

She glanced back into the main room, where Cat and Davos were chatting to Benjen. Davos had very easily crumbled under the pressure of her politely firm question an hour ago. He definitely wouldn’t have survived the Spanish Inquisition. 

_Families_ , she thought. They grow in such unexpected ways.

***

**Jojen**

He didn’t really want to be here. He _wasn’t_ here – not all of him, anyway. Jojen took a glass of fizz from a passing waiter (quite cute) and tried to bring himself into the present. His best mate was here, and that should be good enough. He scanned the room for the other person he couldn’t help but want to see, just a little.

And there he was. Jojen’s first real love, chatting to Meera and Benjen, poised and clear-skinned. He was wearing a red and white striped shirt and linen trousers and looked like something from the French Riviera, circa 1950. No glasses, either. A tiny, exquisite pain in his chest. There would always be a delicately bruised part of his heart that kept itself just for Bran.

Bran caught his eye, gave a half-smile, and waited for Meera to finish telling her story about chasing salmon, before rising and coming over with a discreetly stylish walking stick. He’d heard bits and bobs from Arya over the years about how Bran was doing, finishing his PhD, becoming a fellow at St John’s College, Oxford, apparently stable, always engrossed in his work.

‘Hello, you,’ said Jojen.

‘Hello,’ said Bran. He still had that unnerving serenity he’d taken on since his horrible freak-out in Manchester, though perhaps with the edge was taken off. ‘It’s been a long time.’ He seemed quite unfazed by Jojen’s moustache, unlike everyone else at the party.

‘It has,’ said Jojen, nodding with unnecessary excessiveness. ‘Forever.’

‘Shall we sit outside?’

‘Sure.’ Jojen followed Bran, who walked with balance and slow grace, to the lawns. 

Bran told him about his work, how it mixed science and myth in a way that enraged many of his fellow academics, about the old-school traditions of the college. They found themselves at the edge of a walled garden filled with honeysuckle, lavender, wild poppies, and sat on a bench framed by ivy. Proper secret garden stuff.

‘And how are you?’ Bran said. ‘I check out your art every now and then.’

‘Do you?’ said Jojen. 

Bran gave a gentle nod. 

‘Yeah. It’s . . . been good. Hard graft, freezing studio spaces costing a fortune, trying to get my name about, but it suits me.’ He made a brave attempt at a smile.

‘I’m proud of you,’ Bran said. ‘I always knew you’d make it.’

Jojen couldn’t help the shiver of pleasure at his old love believing in him. But the shiver turned into something else, something present, shuddery and near to shattering, and he took a sharp inhale and put his hand out to the holly leaf next to him. Gently touched the pad of his finger to one spike.

‘And how’s life?’ Bran asked, as if he already understood that all was not well. ‘Outside that?’ 

Life. Somehow, the way Bran said it, it didn’t sound like a throwaway question, but something sea-deep. Tender, painful. Just as it was.

‘Taken a bit of a sudden swerve,’ said Jojen, and felt his heart rise and tears rise at the same time. He put his hand in his hair before fumbling for a cigarette, which he dropped by his foot. ‘Fuck.’ He bent down and retrieved it, lit it, drew deep. ‘Jaqen, my – boyfriend, my partner, you know, Arya’s boss – he’s had some . . . news. About his health.’ 

Bran sat very still as Jojen spoke, and his eyes seemed distant, as if he wasn’t listening. Jojen told him about Jaqen’s heart condition, how it was called heart failure – which had almost given Jojen heart failure upon hearing about it. How heart failure was a strange term for something that was now a lifelong condition; how Jojen thought of Jaqen’s arrhythmic heart, beating more slowly than most, somehow reflecting the peace he always sent outwards.

‘Yeah,’ Jojen finished. ‘It’s not – he’s not dying, it’s just . . . it makes him fragile, somehow. And there’s not a cure.’ Jaqen had been perfectly, predictably calm on the matter, saying that there was much that he could do to manage it, but Jojen didn’t feel like being calm right now. He’d done exactly the wrong thing by Googling it, and reading the worst-case scenarios: surgery, worsening over time, eventually fatal. 

‘It will be OK,’ Bran said, and though his words were light, there was a strange feeling of certainty behind them. 

A sudden, tiny swoon of _déjà-vu _. No: this had happened before, hadn’t it? Jojen in a garden, smoking with a shaky hand, Bran telling him everything would be OK. That he’d get to Japan – and Jojen had, several times.__

__‘Do you promise?’ Jojen said._ _

__The early autumn breeze lifted the honeysuckle petals._ _

__‘I promise,’ said Bran._ _

__***_ _

__**Sandor** _ _

__‘Baby.’ His wife was by his side, slotting her arm into his and giving him something._ _

__She’d foxed him with cake – a fucking massive red velvet concoction he’d just blown the candles from, and now there was a microphone in his hand. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, though he already knew there was no way out._ _

__‘ _Speeeech!_ ’ shouted Theon, which was cheerfully chorused by others. _ _

__A brief flashback to his wedding ten years ago, give or take a few months. He let out a raggedy sigh. Unlike then, he’d absolutely not prepared himself for this, when he’d written and re-written it ten times, accompanied by much swearing and panicked forays onto the internet for help._ _

__‘Daddy You Have To Talk In The Microphone,’ Teddy informed him, standing stoutly by his side as if a bodyguard._ _

__Would Teddy ever need a microphone? ‘Aye, fella, I know.’ A deep breath, as he looked at all these expectant faces, and at Sansa, now holding Florence’s two hands as she swung in front of her. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’_ _

__‘Thanks for coming. I can’t say I’m made up about being . . .’ he sighed. ‘Fifty.’_ _

__A smattering of whoops and applause._ _

__‘It’s all downhill from here, mate,’ called Bronn._ _

__‘Shh,’ said Sansa._ _

__‘Nonsense. The man ages like a fine wine,’ said Oberyn, to lighter whoops._ _

__Theon gave a piercing wolf-whistle._ _

__‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Sandor. He looked over at his wife again; his tall, graceful, forgiving wife. How Florence’s hair was a sunnier, more copper version of her mother’s. ‘It’s not all been plain sailing, as some of you know.’ Many of them did, and he couldn’t be ashamed of it now. He’d been working on shame for a long time now. ‘But, Christ, I couldn’t be luckier to have this family. I would kill zombies for them, and if you know me well, you know I’m shit-scared of zombies, so . . . ’_ _

__‘ _Yeth!_ ’ shouted Aoife. ‘I will kill them with you, Uncle Thandor!’_ _

__‘Me too!’ shouted Clara. ‘We will help you when you’re scared!’ She ran an imaginary spear through Oscar, who looked rather upset._ _

__The room collapsed into giggles._ _

__Sandor gave a softer, quieter version that was just breath into the microphone. ‘And I don’t just mean the immediate family,’ he said. He looked around the room again, at Edd – with Missy resting her head on his shoulder, the twins at their feet – at his old army pal Osha, at Lyanna, at wee Ollie, his old charge from the Forest School and now an apprentice ranger on the Pennines. ‘But – you know, all of you as well. It means a hell of a lot that you’d all trek down here for me.’_ _

__‘Just to rub your nose in it, mate,’ said Bronn, holding his glass up._ _

__‘Aye, thanks a bunch.’ He hadn’t finished. He knew what he needed to say. The old Sandor, aged thirty-five or so, would have run a fucking mile, but here he was. Deep breath. ‘My family’s . . .’ He could feel himself tearing up. Was he actually going to cry in front of all of these people? Christ, he felt fucking tipsy. ‘My family’s just grown and grown, year by year –’ he glanced at Jack and Triona, both the spit of his brother. The room had gone very quiet. No. He could do this. ‘It just keeps getting bigger. And I’ve room for you all.’ He patted his chest. ‘In here.’_ _

__Theon blew his nose, loudly._ _

__‘And one woman’s made that possible.’ He looked at Sansa, whose own eyes were lined in red. ‘Someone said today that I should treasure her. And I do. I treasure you.’_ _

__The room seemed to sigh and wilt as one._ _

__‘Why everyone crying Daddy I don’t like it where the treasure I want it,’ said Florence._ _

__‘You’re it, sweetheart,’ said Sansa. ‘And you, Ted.’_ _

__‘So,’ he said, with a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. ‘To you all. To everyone.’ He held up his champagne towards his wife and kids. ‘And to family.’_ _

__The room chorused it, before more whoops and applause._ _

__‘Um, if I could keep the speechifying going,’ said Sansa, quite loudly._ _

__Christ. If she said anything about him, he’d fall apart. He was only just about keeping it together as it was. The hubbub in the room died down again._ _

__‘I hope Sandor won’t mind me hijacking his party a bit,’ she said._ _

__He shook his head, a little bemused, and saw Sansa glance around the room for all of her siblings._ _

__‘But actually it turns out there are some more congrats in order,’ she said. ‘A certain someone and a certain someone else thought they could get away with disappearing and getting hitched without anyone knowing.’_ _

__A not-quite-imperceptible hum of interest and excitement in the room, with people looking around at each other._ _

__Sandor felt increasingly baffled. Was it Meera and Benjen? Ygritte changing her crazy-arsed mind?_ _

__‘I’m Spartacus!’ shouted Theon._ _

__‘But that’s not happening,’ Sansa said. She held her glass. ‘So I’d like to be the first to very much congratulate –’ she stopped short, a hand to her chest. Tears had clearly surprised her. ‘I’d like to congratulate my mum, Cat, and Davos, on their very recent and now not-at-all secret wedding.’_ _

__The room became a purr of dove-like ooos and ahhs. Sandor had totally not seen that coming. How long had Sansa known?_ _

__A tear was chasing another down his wife’s cheek. ‘On behalf of all five of us,’ she said. ‘I just want my mum – our mum – to know that we love her so much and are really happy for –’ her voice broke, the words winnowing away, and Davos was the first to step up and put his arms around her. He murmured something to her and Sansa erupted into loud sobs on his shoulder._ _

__Time to rescue her. ‘Well, I’m more than happy for this party to not be about me getting old,’ Sandor said, over-loudly, into the mic. ‘So here’s to Cat and Davos. I’m made up for you.’_ _

__The room held up their glasses, as Cat joined the tearful hug, followed by each and every one of her offspring._ _

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__‘How,’ said Arya. ‘Did one ten-year-old little squirt from hell become so excellent?’_ _

__In the long, massive dining hall, Robin had reprised the trio with Rickon (monosyllabic, yelling, slightly out-of-tune electric guitar) and Lyanna (hitting the living shit out of her drums). Robin himself was manning a station of synth, keyboard, electric ‘cello and vocals, as well as confidently compering._ _

__‘Tully blood,’ said Robb. ‘The rock’n’roll madness was always going to come out eventually.’_ _

__She, Sansa, Bran, and Robb were all together, watching their cousin, littlest brother and his girlfriend, and Arya allowed herself the moment to appreciate them all being here, together, under one roof. It happened once a year now. Not enough._ _

__‘Sandor seems happy,’ Arya said._ _

__‘So he should,’ Sansa said. ‘How many birthday parties include a live family band playing literally all of his favourite tunes?’_ _

__Sansa had given Robin a strict playlist, and the band had bashed through most of the rock numbers now – Led Zeppelin, Foo Fighters, The Strokes amongst them._ _

__‘That’s going to end in tears,’ said Arya, nodding to the front._ _

__Most of the kids were dancing with hops and wheeling arms, some with ear defenders on to withstand the onslaught. Oscar kept trying to dance with Clara, but she kept wheeling away to dance with Aoife, the two of them holding hands and whooping._ _

__‘His, not hers,’ said Robb. ‘I only have Oscar to thank for turning my daughter into a complete badass. You know she does _taekwondo_ classes instead of ballet now?’_ _

__‘Now,’ said Robin from the stage, pushing his hair back with his hand, and looking completely in his element. ‘We’re going to take things down a notch. Please welcome Ygritte to the mic!’_ _

__Lyanna rolled her eyes, but swapped her drumsticks for brushes, and Rickon stepped off the stage._ _

__A smattering of applause as Ygritte jumped up and took Rickon’s mic. ‘Now then, you lot,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve got a reputation for doing things the wrong way up, but I fucking love this song.’ She pointed at Sandor. ‘So happy birthday, me old mucker. This one’s for you.’_ _

__Robin played the opening strings of ‘At Last’ by Etta James on his keyboard. Sandor lifted a suddenly sleepy Florence into his arms, and danced with her. Meera and Benjen started dancing, and Edd, Missy and the twins were all holding hands in a circle._ _

__‘Look.’ Arya nodded towards the other side of the room, as Rickon came to join them._ _

__She and her siblings watched Davos offer their mum his hand, which she took with grace. Ygritte was singing surprisingly beautifully._ _

__‘Hey,’ said Robb, to his siblings. ‘To Dad.’_ _

__Arya took a breath, it suddenly hitting her. They all clinked glasses. Robb put one arm round Sansa and the other round Bran, and Arya leant against Rickon, and they watched their mum and her new husband begin to dance._ _

__***_ _

__**Robin** _ _

__‘ _Oh Sandy_ ,’ sang Bronn, to the tune of Barry Manilow’s ‘Mandy’. ‘ _You came in your kilt without asking/so I sent you away. . ._ ’_ _

__Robin had always enjoyed older people’s company. Old before his time, his mum would say – though she called Thoros youthful, so he wasn’t sure how to take that. Still! He was most enjoying the company as the evening’s chill drew in. The kids had been packed off to bed and most of the adults, parents or otherwise, were sitting on various fancy garden chairs round a fire, with whiskies or coffees or both._ _

__‘ _Oh Sandy, and under your kilt was a weapon/And I need it today. . ._ ’_ _

__Robin snorted. He’d smoked a little of Theon’s weed and everything seemed quite hilarious. Bronn was actually pretty good on Thoros’ guitar, though, in a Seventies lothario sort of way._ _

__‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Sandor, who had Sansa seated on his lap. ‘Watch me fall about with laughter.’_ _

__Bronn stopped strumming and leant on the guitar. ‘It’s not every man who can be serenaded by his pals.’ He pointed at him. ‘You should count yourself one lucky fucker.’_ _

__‘I preferred the band.’ Sandor nodded at Robin._ _

__‘Thanks, man!’ said Robin. That was the nearest to a compliment that Sandor had ever given him._ _

__Bronn was passing the guitar to a beckoning Oberyn, who began finger-picking something dolorous, and singing in Spanish. Albeniz, maybe? Everyone, stoned or otherwise, quietened and listened as Oberyn continued. Robin saw Sandor whispering something in Sansa’s ear, and she got up and took him by the hand._ _

__‘Where are you off to?’ said Osha. ‘The night’s young.’_ _

__‘Dog-tired,’ said Sandor, rather unconvincingly. ‘Bed’s calling.’_ _

__‘Summat’s calling, that’s for sure,’ said Bronn, and neither Sandor nor Sansa denied it._ _

__They all said goodnight as Robin’s cousin and her husband disappeared into the shadows towards the house, hand in hand._ _

__‘That’s what happens when Oberyn opens his mouth,’ said Theon. ‘People start copping off.’_ _

__‘Ah,’ said Oberyn, coming to a close. ‘Music is the first language of love.’_ _

__‘This man,’ said Ygritte. ‘Could read the back of a cereal packet and I’d fancy a wank.’_ _

__‘Another man might get quite envious of such compliments to another,’ said Tyrion, reclining next to her._ _

__‘Just as well I’m not with another man then, isn’t it?’ She clapped a hand on his thigh and he covered it with his own hand. ‘Any road, the man’s as gay as houses. No danger there.’_ _

__‘In fact, I am pansexual,’ murmured Oberyn. ‘Every type of person has the potential to delight me.’_ _

__Robin thought wistfully of Wylla, whom he followed on Instagram and was currently travelling in Cambodia with her non-binary lover. He’d never forget the green-haired, punky Aphrodite giving him his first kiss. Perhaps he might be pansexual! He lived in hope._ _

__‘Oh well, in that case,’ said Ygritte, and winked at Tyrion._ _

__‘You are incorrigible, my love.’_ _

__‘If I might observe,’ said Oberyn. ‘You two do make the most charming partnership. Wit, elegance, a certain élan.’_ _

__‘Yes, he is rather beguiling, isn’t he?’ said Tyrion, with a crooked grin._ _

__‘Young ‘uns present,’ said Ygritte._ _

__‘No, he’s off the lasses,’ said Bronn. ‘Gonna focus on his sonatas and all that gubbins.’_ _

__‘For now,’ said Robin._ _

__‘Art and love,’ said Oberyn, holding up his glass of port to Robin. ‘There is nothing else, no?’_ _

__***_ _

__**Edd** _ _

__‘Mmm,’ said Missy. ‘I could get used to this.’_ _

__They’d snuck away a while ago, looked in on the twins – Lucas and Lola in their dinosaur pajamas, delighted to be amongst so many other kids – and now were in their extremely fancy room. They’d polished off the champagne they’d nicked and spent an extremely pleasant half an hour on the floor. They’d put towels down, but he still deeply hoped they’d not stained the plush cream rug underneath them._ _

__‘Being without the kids?’ he said._ _

__‘Being in the countryside,’ she said, pulling the duvet off the bed and over the pair of them._ _

__‘Really?’_ _

__‘Mmm-hmm,’ she said, before tipping her head up to look at the satin – was it satin? It looked bloody posh – wallpaper border around the top of the room, the demure chandelier. ‘I mean, having a massive pad like this wouldn’t hurt, but . . .’ she settled against him. ‘No. It’s nice. Seeing them run around like mad. High on fresh air.’_ _

__‘There is that.’ He gazed up at the cream swirls in the ceiling. ‘But – you love London, don’t you?’_ _

__‘I do,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s got a lot going for it. But it does make you think.’_ _

__‘Does it?’_ _

__‘A little. They love it up at the farm as well.’_ _

__They did; his dad was a soft as anything with them, as Edd had crossed his fingers he would be. He’d taken them up onto the hills on the quad bike and they’d merrily yelled their heads off._ _

__‘You wouldn’t want to be up there,’ he said. ‘What would you do? What would either of us do?’_ _

__She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really. Just putting it out there. Anyway,’ she leant over him and kissed his chest. ‘Enough of that. I’m not finished with you.’_ _

__***_ _

__**Jojen** _ _

__‘Check you out,’ Jojen said. ‘Proper dancefloor boy, now.’_ _

__Beyond the merry outdoor drinkers, at the blurred edge where firelight became shadow, he was dancing with his first love. The guitar kept getting passed around and currently Robin was accompanying Tyrion, who was singing You’re Just Too Good To Be True in a rather gentle, wine-slowed version. Jojen had offered his hand and Bran had taken it, and here they were, holding each other delicately, as if at a Regency ball._ _

__Bran smiled. ‘Not really. But it’s better than it used to be.’_ _

__‘I missed you,’ Jojen said, and went to clarify, to make sure than Bran knew he didn’t mean anything romantic, not as such._ _

__But Bran had that eerie manner about him now, even though he was much better than he used to be, and Jojen knew he didn’t have to make clear what he meant._ _

__‘I missed you, too,’ Bran said._ _

__Bran was never going to apologise for what had happened. But, fuck it – life was too short to dwell. Jojen knew that now, more than ever. ‘Can we be friends?’ he said._ _

__Another calm smile. ‘I’d like that.’_ _

__Jojen pulled him a little closer, rested his chin on his shoulder, and breathed in the scent of the lemon verbena close by, of the firesmoke, of Bran._ _

__***_ _

__**Sandor** _ _

__‘Jesus fucking H fucking Christ,’ he said._ _

__His wife was on top of him, but only just. She was hovering, just about taking the tip of him into her, and the delicious near-torment of anticipation was hardly enough to bear._ _

__‘Say you want me,’ she said, leaning over him, her hair falling onto his chest._ _

__‘Fucking hell, you know I do.’_ _

__The promised new underwear was prize-winning: she’d taken her dress off to reveal a black bra and sheer black pants with straps and cutaways that somehow managed to look insanely classy. She still had on the bra, though he’d removed the pants a while ago to feast on her. She’d stuffed some of the posh brocade curtain in her mouth to keep herself quiet._ _

__‘Tell me,’ she said now, in the manner of a very expensive madam._ _

__‘I want you,’ he said, and his voice emerged more as rumbling tractor engine than actual words._ _

__‘Say please,’ she said, inching a little further down over him, and up away again._ _

__He groaned and arched his back to try and get closer to her. She hummed a no. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please. I need you to. I can’t – please fucking fuck me right now, woman.’_ _

__A slight pause. ‘OK, then,’ she said, and finally slid down over him, took all of him in, and they were away._ _

__A little while later, she was lying next to him, unclasping her bra._ _

__‘You don’t have to take that off.’ He touched the bone of her shoulder._ _

__‘It itches,’ she said. ‘Bring back my M &S soft cup.’ She threw it into a corner, to join some of their scattered clothes, and draped herself over him. _ _

__The two of them, stuck together; sweaty as fuck, fucked as hell._ _

__‘We haven’t done all of that in a while,’ she said, her fingers lightly scratching their hair on his chest. There was more of it than ever, and some was turning grey. He’d end up looking like a fucking polar bear._ _

__‘Not exactly all of that, no.’ His head was spinning slightly, though whether it was from the booze or the sex, he wasn’t sure._ _

__‘Still got it.’_ _

__‘Aye. Just about.’ He worked his jaw open, heard it click._ _

__‘Hey.’ She prodded him right in the middle of his sternum. ‘You were moaning about having done yourself in six weeks after we met. And you still seem to be managing just fine. So enough of your grumbles.’_ _

__‘Grumbles are my stock in trade. It’s why you fell in love with me.’_ _

__‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Maybe a little bit.’ He felt her heart beat, the light, lolloping thud against his side. ‘You didn’t mind me announcing about Mum, did you?’_ _

__‘No, of course not.’ He put his hand around the back of her skull, touched her hair. ‘You OK with it? Pretty big news.’_ _

__‘Surprisingly yes,’ she said. She drew in a long, deep breath. ‘Life just keeps going forward, doesn’t it?’_ _

__‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It does.’_ _

__He knew that in part she was thinking of the two of them, of what they’d been through, how close it’d come to all turning to shit. But she didn’t bring it up, and he didn’t either. They’d got used to talking about everything, all out in the open, but sometimes a shared, companiable silence did the trick._ _

__He shut his eyes. With no kids to wake him up, he was going to sleep like the fucking dead._ _

__‘Baby,’ Sansa said, raising her head from his chest a little. ‘Can you smell smoke?’_ _

__He inhaled half-heartedly. ‘Nope.’ He pulled her to him, her chin on the flesh of his shoulder, her lovely gentle ownership of him. He breathed in again, a breath of deep, knackered calm, the fog of sleep beginning to take over. Then he opened his eyes. ‘Actually, aye.’_ _

__He could smell smoke._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Chapter 4

_**Vita brevis, ars longa (Life is short, art is long)** _

*******

**Sansa**

‘Right, Little Miss Trouble,’ said Sansa. ‘Time to go to sleep.’

‘Don’t want to,’ said Florence, arms crossed and very much awake. 

‘OK, then, popsicle. I’ll read you a story. Just one.’

It didn’t matter if Florence got them up in the night, not really. That kind of thing didn’t seem important once there’d been the possibility of her not being there at all.

After she’d read half of a story about a princess slaying a dragon, and Florence had finally drifted into sleep, Sansa crept back down the corridor, avoiding the creaky floorboard – though Sandor’s earthy snores would probably blot out that sound.

He let out a rumbling groan as she slid back into bed. ‘She down?’

‘For now,’ Sansa said, under her breath. 

He opened his arm out. ‘Was it fire again?’

‘Yep.’ She nestled into him, an arm over his chest. ‘Though I swear she’s just using that as an excuse.’

When she thought back to that night – to them smelling smoke, and coming out in their dressing gowns to find others doing the same, and increasing panic as they realised that the fire wasn’t from outside but in the east wing of the house, where the kids were – it seemed unreal, a dream made up of snapshots. 

The flames coming from the kitchen on the ground floor, and beginning to snake up the stairs. Osha, a firefighter following her army days, instructing Sandor, Edd, Bronn, Brienne and others. Sandor ignoring her and barrelling up the stairs, coming down with the twins under each arm first, and then back down with Teddy and Florence, while Bronn and Edd brought down the others. Aoife, hopping up and down, madly excited. A chain of people passing buckets of water, though it did little to quell the flames.

Ygritte had snapped into sobriety and, along with Davos, sorted everyone through their shock and, in Sandor and Edd’s case, bad smoke inhalation. The flare of light on people’s faces out on the lawn, having given up on trying to stop the fire, just watching as one wing of the house was consumed. Finally, after what seemed like hours, three fire engines had rolled up the drive from the narrow lanes and had taken over. The damp smell of smouldering wood, the blackened brick. The flank of this great mansion ravaged.

Olenna had been sanguine, of course. ‘Far too much house anyway,’ she’d said.

‘How about you?’ Sansa said to Sandor now.

Sandor had dreamt of it once or twice too, woken up shouting and slick with sweat. Had to go and check on the kids, just in case. He hummed, still half-asleep. ‘Fine.’

‘Fine,’ she said, and rolled over onto her side, knowing he’d follow her movement and shift too, curl himself around her.

He rumbled something indistinct again, and she hummed back, mickey-taking, but he was already under. 

She lay there, feeling his heart thump against her back, his arm over hers. Fine. It was just that. She hadn’t forgotten about what had happened to them, three years ago. Sometimes from out of nowhere, often when he’d just done something lovely – holding Florence upside down and shaking her, helping Teddy chop ingredients for spag bol, or just putting his hand on her back and leaning down to kiss her hello – she’d feel it: the flare of old hurt rising in her ribs, the pressure so great against her breastplate that she thought it might burst. 

Sometimes she felt jealous of other women – an attractive waitress in a restaurant, or even one of her oldest friends – and would watch him carefully to see how he acted with them. But she’d learnt that if she did feel it, she’d say so. That it was OK to have all of their messy feelings – shame, hurt, jealousy, anger – out in the open, because then they could look at them together, and the feelings shrank, dissolved.

But she knew, really, that she could trust him. The events that had almost destroyed them were long over, and life in all its sweetness was short. The fire, monumental and shocking, had only served as another reminder. There had been the horrific, heart-arresting moments of him going up the stairs, bringing their children down, going up again to help Bronn, and all of her worst fears were shouting at her. He would die. They would all die.

Sandor gave another sleepy mumble. ‘I love you,’ he said, the words all smudged into one.

This was all that mattered. She and Sandor, Teddy and Florence, and Bowie, a little knot of mud and moss and flowers, connected to and feeding each other, and part of a wider forest. 

‘I love you, too,’ she said.

***

**Edd**

‘You’re looking again, are you?’

Missy was on her laptop, the twins having been put down with two stories and a song – Edd having never in a million years imagined that he’d be crooning made-up nonsense about friendly monsters most bedtimes.

‘Yep’ she said, sitting back, looking sheepish.

Missy hadn’t let go of the idea to move north. He’d pointed out the obvious drawbacks (cold, rainy, windy, far from London, far from anywhere, hard to make ends meet, farmers never making money, very few black families up there) but she’d gently persisted. Though she hadn’t ever reared anything more than a few houseplants and their cat Pepper, something seemed to taken hold of her of late. She’d started volunteering at the local community greenhouses, and going to all the nearest wild spaces with the twins. The need for nature to keep her grounded.

‘Found a network for farmers of colour,’ she said. ‘They actually exist, you know.’

‘OK,’ he said, sitting down next to her with his red wine. ‘You know it’ll be bloody hard work. It’s not a money spinner.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You’ve said. But . . .’ she took a deep breath, and he could see she’d been storing her thoughts up, ordering them for this moment. ‘If we take over from your dad we don’t have to buy it. And if it doesn’t work out we’ll just come back down. It can be an experiment.’ She raised both her eyebrows, two elegant birds on the wing.

Missy, to whom he could never say no. Missy, who’d made him a better man. Missy, who just through being herself was a reminder never to let pessimism get the better of him. Who got him to do just as she suggested, moving up north a year later, converting the stable to an annex for his dad. A year after that, setting up a farm school – with Sandor’s help – bringing young people of colour into contact with fields and sheep. The twins, to his surprise and pleasure, loving their new life.

Where there’s a will and all that.

***

**Jojen**

‘Look at the light,’ Jaqen said.

They were in the Hayward Gallery, looking at the Mapplethorpe exhibition. Lots of arses and leather, but it was the still life flowers that currently struck them.

‘Mmm,’ said Jojen, gazing again at the single parrot tulip, lit as if a film star. 

What was it Jaqen had told him about once? Stendhal Syndrome, that was it – when people fainted in front of art they’d seen for the first time. Jojen felt like it now. The tulip was so painterly, so melancholy, and in Jaqen’s favoured black and white. Nothing could have been more beautiful.

He watched Jaqen glide over to the next portrait. It was Jojen who seemed to move more gingerly now that they knew about Jaqen’s heart arrhythmia, not Jaqen. But that was always going to be the way. So godammned accepting. If Jojen died, Jaqen would quietly deal with his sadness and accept it in about five seconds. Jojen wasn’t quite there yet; if Jaqen died, he’d lie in a puddle of his own piss and tears for five years, and then make an art-shrine the size of a small country. 

There he went again, being melodramatic. No one was dying. Jaqen was just a little more delicate than they’d imagined, and needed to take a few pills, and hopefully nothing worse than that would happen for a very long time.

He drifted over towards the next photograph. He’d buy a postcard for Bran, he thought; he’d got into the habit of sending him something from most exhibitions he went to, and Bran would send back poems. It was right, and it was enough.

Jaqen was in front of a photograph of two roses, side-lit, their leaves almost touching but not quite. 

_A rose is a rose is a rose_ , Jojen thought. 

Jaqen glanced at Jojen with those watchful, half-amused sea-green eyes. The two of them almost touching, but not quite.

Oh man, Jojen loved him. He wanted to say more than that, far more. ‘Hey,’ he said. 

Jaqen glanced at Jojen with those watchful, half-amused sea-green eyes. A look that carried no pressure, no expectation. That made Jojen feel himself. 

No. Not yet. If he was going to do it, he’d do it the Jojen way. It would be art, and it would be magnificent.

Jojen shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Jaqen gave one of his feline smiles, brought up Jojen’s hand and kissed it.

***

**Robin**

‘Yo, Mum.’

Lysa was calling, as she often did if Robin hadn’t phoned in a few days, checking he hadn’t fallen down a hole, with that passive-aggressive, guilt-tripping tone in her voice. He’d learnt not to mind it too much. Thoros had taught him a lot in that regard. It’s just surface, son, he’d say. The waters run deep and slow underneath it all.

‘Yup,’ Robin said, his mind still full of the Bartok he’d just been listening to. ‘Mmm-hmm. No, Mum, I haven’t got a girl here.’ He looked round his bedroom – he was in a shared flat with three other creative students, and it was heaven. Like a less dirty version of that Jojen-Wylla-Irri mecca from way back when. Less weed, more peppermint tea.

‘Yes, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ve turned the switches off. Yep, there’s nothing on the hob.’ Lysa had become rather obsessive about fire safety since the preposterously operatic conflagration at Olenna’s house.

He looked down at his study score. He was thinking about doing a Master’s in Conducting. The ultimate in control. He could conduct his own stuff! Like Mozart, and Berlioz, and Thomas Ades! Just imagine: a whole orchestra gazing up at him, flowing with his every gesture. It would be so sick.

‘Hmm? Yep. Sorry. Yes, I’m listening.’ He sat up, actually focused on what his mother was saying, eyes widening. Could women really get pregnant at fifty years old? Well, he thought, his mother could. And there was definitely something in those joints that Thoros smoked.

‘Wow. That’s . . . immense,’ he said. ‘Wow. No, Mum, that’s beautiful. Amazing news. I’ll be over next weekend, yeah? Okay. Wow. OK, sure thing.’

He let Lysa put Thoros on, listened to his extremely chilled-out joy, and thought back to his own freak-out when Ivan was born. Well, Robin was a different soul now, happy to welcome whatever little mite came bundling into the world. He no longer needed to be the only Tully child in existence to feel good.

And bands made up of siblings, he reminded himself with a broadening smile – dashing off a mental list that included the Beach Boys, The Brothers Johnson and Kings of Leon – were always the best.

***

**Sandor**

‘Impossible, My Dear Lady! That’s Absurd! Unthinkable!’

Teddy was in the school play, playing Willy Wonka. A long cloak and a ridiculous hat. Unlike most of his classmates, everyone at the back of the hall could hear him. 

Florence wriggled on his lap. ‘ _Shh _, you terror,’ he said to her. ‘Watch your brother.’__

__He glanced over at Sansa, who was filming everything on her phone, her heart clapped to her chest, mouthing Teddy’s words at him. Christ. This woman. This family. Sometimes it made his heart want to crack open, because so much love fucking hurt._ _

__During the interval, Sandor sent Florence tottering off with three pounds to get an ice cream from the aisle, and was monitoring her progress as she passed parents’ legs, praying she didn’t swear at any of them._ _

__‘Hey,’ Sansa said. He glanced over, and saw she was looking at the calendar on her phone. ‘You realise what day it is today?’_ _

__Fuck. He racked his brains. Birthdays, wedding anniversary, some sort of promotion he’d somehow missed – but he looked again at the date and remembered. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said. ‘How has it been that long?’_ _

__She shook her head. ‘Do you remember it?’_ _

__‘Like muscle memory.’ And he did – her turning up at the Wetherspoon’s looking like a goddess, the two of them playing pool, the baffled realisation that she wanted to sleep with him, the awkwardness back at his, the sex in the kitchen, in the bath, the knowledge that this was the only girl he’d ever fallen for – it was all there._ _

__‘Happy first meeting anniversary,’ he said, and put his arm round her._ _

__‘Thirteen years, mister.’_ _

__‘Aye.’ He still couldn’t quite believe his luck, but here it was._ _

__‘Been through quite a lot.’_ _

__‘Aye. We have.’_ _

__‘It’s going to be easy-peasy isn’t it? From now on.’_ _

__‘’Course it is. Plain sailing from here.’_ _

__They smiled at each other, and Sansa rested her head on his shoulder, where he was sure she must have rubbed a hollow over the years. And he knew full well that it wouldn’t be perfect, and that was OK; because life, he understood now, was not either perfect or a disaster, but all the colours in between, and they’d experienced pretty much the lot of them. But he dared to hope that the colours would stay rich, and his family richly coloured within it._ _

__‘Hey,’ he said._ _

__‘Yeah?’_ _

__‘I got my ice cream Daddy, it look bloody yum,’ said Florence, arriving back and climbing his leg like a tree trunk until she was on his lap again._ _

__‘So you did,’ he said, as the lights went down and the second half started._ _

__Sansa prodded his knee. ‘What was it?’ she whispered._ _

__‘Maybe later,’ he whispered back._ _

__A wild moment of madness. But was it madness, to ask your wife to marry you again? To renew vows, just to make sure they stuck?_ _

__But he asked her, in another ten years, when Ted was gearing up for uni, an event that caused Sandor to blub like a six foot five baby. When Florence was causing trouble by being caught smoking at school, whilst still being debating club captain and head girl for her year. When Sansa was in charge of international planning for the north-west and Sandor’s Forest Schools were dotted over the whole of the north._ _

__And she said yes._ _

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__‘Dad.’_ _

__Arya had just got off to sleep. Often, her mind raced with all the shit she had to do at work, her brain scrolling through its to-do list, and she had to count backwards from an indiscriminate number. She'd definitely dropped off what now only seemed like seconds ago._ _

__‘Mum.’_ _

__Pod clicked on his bedside light._ _

__‘What?’ said Arya, eyes still shut._ _

__‘Can I come in?’_ _

__Aoife was too big to be in with them. Massive, in fact – she had inherited Pod’s compact torso and limbs. But fuck it._ _

__‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘In, heffalump.’_ _

__‘ _You’re_ the heffalump,’ Aoife said, climbing over her. Her Canadian accent was stronger by the day. Literally no Bristol in there at all._ _

__‘We’re all heffalumps,’ said Pod, equal parts cheer and sleepiness._ _

__Aoife lay between them. She let out a colossal sigh. And another._ _

__‘What’s up, then?’ said Arya._ _

__‘I mith everyone,’ said Aoife, in a rather small, despondent voice for her._ _

__‘Who?’_ _

__‘Everyone. From England. Auntie Thantha, Uncle Thandor, Teddy, Florenth, Uncle Robb, Auntie Margaery, Clara, Bella, Uncle Bran, Uncle Rickon, Grandma and Grandad Davoth, Robin –’_ _

__‘OK, I get the idea,’ said Arya._ _

__Another hefty sigh._ _

__‘We miss them, too,’ said Pod. ‘But they’re still there.’_ _

__‘With a huge wide othean in between. Manchether ith literally five and a half thouthand kilometers away.’_ _

__‘True dat,’ said Arya. She stared up at the ceiling and wondered what Sansa was up to right now. Asleep, presumably, and hopefully with less interruption._ _

__‘I with that everyone could all come over to Canada and we could live in one big houth and all be together.’_ _

__‘That,’ said Arya. ‘Would be a nightmare.’_ _

__‘I know where you can make a big house,’ said Pod._ _

__Arya frowned at him. Giving her ideas was not going to get her to sleep._ _

__‘Where?’ said Aoife._ _

__He very gently tapped his daughter’s chest. ‘In there.’_ _

__A brief, baffled pause. ‘Huh?’_ _

__‘Imagine that your heart is a house,’ said Pod._ _

__‘OK,’ said Aoife, doubtfully._ _

__‘A massive one. Tons of rooms. Like Uncle Sandor’s party house.’_ _

__‘Except that one burnt down,’ said Aoife._ _

__‘Not quite like that house, then. Better. Less flammable.’_ _

__‘Cool.’_ _

__‘So your heart is a house, with a roof and walls and rooms for everyone,’ Pod said. Arya found herself picturing the same, the chambers of her own heart opening out, creating endless staircases, basements, wings, attics. ‘If new people come to stay you can always find room for them. Even if people leave, their room stays. They can all live there, all together, and you can check in on them any time you like.’_ _

__Aoife’s sigh was more satisfied. ‘OK. I like that, Dad.’_ _

__Arya grinned at her husband from her pillow, suddenly remembering him from a long time ago. How had she lucked out and got this boy – the awkward one holding a boxy laptop and textbooks, in his ill-fitting suit – and kept him?_ _

__Pod smiled his reassuring, wide smile and gave Arya the softest wink. ‘Lights out?’ he said._ _

__‘Lights out,’ said Aoife._ _

__Pod reached over to the bedside table, and turned out the light._ _

__**END** _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, really! It's the end!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for following this; it's taught me a lot about writing and LIFE, and (nearly!) always given me good cheer. Much love, SF xxx


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